read my new story : American Fast & Furious NSFW
"...Could it be the driver?"
The murmur of scattered conversations softly brushed against Lucas's ears, making his expression darken.
Lucas: Ha, driver. Correct answer. After all, isn't that exactly what he is tonight—a driver?
But outwardly, he remained unmoved.
His face was as calm as still water, and his demeanor steady. Lucas stood tall, as straight as a pine tree, fastening the button on his suit jacket with his slender fingers before turning and walking toward the gallery, skirting around the car.
Inside, they had already noticed the commotion outside, and someone came out to open the door.
"Anson..."
"Anson!"
"Anson."
In an instant, the murmuring outside morphed into whispers calling for Anson—some loud, some soft, some excited, others shy, some joyful, and others lost in thought.
The scattered sounds continued to surge, as if the surrounding buildings had all broken into a tap dance, making the world around them undulate with waves of heat.
Lucas: Driver and bodyguard.
Anson didn't avoid it. He stood confidently in place, scanning the crowd, nodding slightly with a smile as if he were exchanging morning greetings with neighbors—no waving necessary.
It was precisely this casual and natural demeanor that made him appear less like a superstar receiving cheers. The crowd, receiving his calm signal, responded politely with nods as well. The boiling atmosphere of the crowd, akin to bubbling lava, stayed just below the surface.
Then, Anson stepped aside politely, making room for the lady behind him like a true gentleman.
In that moment, Nora could feel the crowd's gaze pouring down on her like a summer downpour, intense and overwhelming. It was so fierce that she found it hard to breathe, causing her to momentarily pause.
Just a few moments ago inside, Nora had seen the chaos outside and couldn't help but feel concerned for Anson.
Nora suggested Anson exit through the back door to avoid the public eye as much as possible.
But Anson had a different opinion.
Sure, they could leave through the back door, but the paparazzi had probably already surrounded that area too. Besides, even if the back door was clear, leaving that way would imply they were trying to avoid attention.
Firstly, it would make them look guilty. They had nothing to hide, but sneaking away would only fuel media speculation and lead to fabricated stories.
Secondly, it would spark more curiosity. The more they avoided the paparazzi, the more determined they would become. The more they hid, the harder the paparazzi would dig.
To put it plainly, it was a cat-and-mouse game. And the point was—
The starting positions were the same. Whoever ran first became the mouse.
Anson had always faced the media with integrity and openness, willing to engage with the paparazzi and the public on equal terms. Whether he became the cat or the mouse in this game, one thing was certain—he would never play the role of the mouse.
Even so, Anson left the decision to his mother.
Nora thought it over carefully and ultimately chose to face the situation head-on.
However.
Nora soon realized she had underestimated the power of the crowd. It looked chaotic from a distance, but experiencing it up close felt downright insane.
Unconsciously, she paused.
Click. Click, click, click, click.
Though there weren't many paparazzi, the sound of camera shutters broke through the roar of the crowd, the silver flashbulbs proving their presence.
But precisely because there weren't too many, the sporadic flashing from different corners made it harder for her eyes to adjust.
Nora then noticed Lucas walking ahead, standing beside the car and respectfully opening the door. With a formal invitation gesture, he said:
"Please, Mrs. Wood, Mr. Wood."
Without thinking further, Nora quickly got into the car.
Anson, however, glanced at Lucas, catching a glimpse of the playful sarcasm in his words. Was this some kind of role-playing game?
"...Driver, huh?" Anson teased.
Lucas stared at Anson, his expression blank.
But Anson could see the sheer resignation in Lucas's eyes, which made him chuckle softly. Without further teasing, Anson followed Nora into the car.
Lucas, a bit annoyed, reminded him, "Watch your head."
As Anson tucked his left leg into the car, Lucas shut the door with a heavy thud.
Bang.
The muffled sound signaled the crowd and paparazzi to finally snap out of their daze.
Was that it?
Was Anson really about to leave like this?
Suddenly, the crowd panicked.
A raucous chorus of shouts erupted like a torrential downpour on a summer afternoon, roaring with no warning, filling the world with deafening noise.
It was all happening right in front of them, without any tricks or deception. But the crowd hadn't fully processed it, and in that moment of hesitation, they didn't think to chase, block, or approach him. Instead, they instinctively maintained their distance, watching as Anson got into the car.
...That was it?
A beat too late, the realization finally struck—the paparazzi and the crowd alike became frantic. Questions and screams of all kinds came rushing in like a tidal wave.
Ahhh, ahhh!
The world seemed to quake.
But Lucas was a step ahead.
With his long legs, he circled around the front of the car and slid into the driver's seat.
Then, without hesitation, they were off.
No pauses, no second thoughts. Before the crowd could react, they had already driven away.
By the time the crowd realized what was happening, they poured into the street like a broken dam, engulfing the road. Flashbulbs and shouts desperately reached for the vehicle, but all they could catch was the car's retreating silhouette.
Eyes filled with reluctant longing.
"Ah, Anson, ahhhh..."
A cry, piercing the sky, came from a figure that suddenly broke free from the crowd, charging forward like a leopard at full speed—
No joke. For a split second, it felt like an Olympic 100-meter dash, with all eyes locked on the sprinting figure.
That man ran with all his might, shouting as he went, his strong, muscular frame and desperate cries creating a bizarre, yet oddly harmonious scene. The visual impact of the moment was hard to describe, leaving everyone else frozen in place, watching the car turn the corner.
And then, it was gone.
The man, finally exhausted, stopped, resting his hands on his knees, panting heavily. Even from half a street away, you could feel his sadness and frustration. His lonely silhouette made the bystanders feel awkward—after all, they were just curious onlookers. His feelings ran much deeper.
Meanwhile, inside the gallery.
Carol and the other two were pressed against the window, standing on tiptoe to get a better look at the scene, which instantly reminded them of the St. Patrick's Day parade.
"If he shouts, 'Hey, Anson, you dropped your wallet,' it would be a comedy," one of the men joked quietly.
Carol gave him a blank stare.
The man raised his hands. "Humor. It's called humor. No sense of humor at all. Life must be exhausting for you."
After a brief pause, Carol quietly responded, "If he shouts, 'Hey, Anson, you forgot your phone,' it would be a horror movie."
Inside the car.
Nora looked back through the rearview mirror at the figure who had stopped in the street, still filled with regret and frustration. "Anson, are you sure this is okay?"
Anson's face was serious. "If we stop the car now, I go over and thank him, then give him a hug—what do you think?"
Before Nora could answer, Lucas shifted gears and stepped on the gas.
Anson: "...Hey, driver, is that your way of casting a vote with your feet?"
Lucas chose not to respond.